


Something Like a Vow

by geekmama



Series: Time of the Season [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 13:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10572270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: What do you need?She woke to the echo of those words, voiced so long ago, yet always in her heart, and often in her dreams.____________________________________________________Molly is making a rapid recovery from the flu in this sequel toNeeds Must.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the 'What' prompt.
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_What do you need?_  

She woke to the echo of those words, voiced so long ago, yet always in her heart, and often in her dreams. 

The bedroom was bathed in a faint luminescence that told her it was still very early on this quiet, snowy morning. The air was cool, almost cold, but the bedclothes were warm, and the body spooned against the whole back of her, head to toe, was warmer still. 

Sherlock. 

Who would have thought that it would come to this: _Domestic Bliss_ , as Mycroft put it. After all the years of agonizing hope, resignation, and even, occasionally, despair. 

Miraculously, her soul ached no longer. 

And, on this particular winter morning, five days after succumbing to a truly dreadful flu virus with attendant bacterial complications, she suddenly noticed that her _head_ no longer ached -- and what blessed relief _that_ was! 

Then, not as suddenly but quite inexorably, she became aware of a very different sort of ache stirring within her. All this _Domestic Blis_ s was surely to blame: the sensual comfort of her bed, her improving health, and, the most vital element, Sherlock curled close around her, his arm draped possessively over her middle, his large hand splayed casually, protectively, over her breasts. 

 _What do you need?_  

The answer was evident, though a little unexpected, considering how very ill she’d been -- and still was, to a degree. She suspected she had a low-grade fever, even now. 

But there was no denying it. She was thirty-five years old, and thoroughly aware of the various signs that she _desired._ It had always been her default state when in close proximity to Sherlock. Sense and logic had nothing to do with it. Even at his lowest points (and she’d seen some that were truly abysmal) she was drawn to him, moth to maddening flame. A mere flu bug, however devastating, would hardly serve to hinder its progression. 

She did wonder if his own feelings on the matter would align with her own. Was it even right to ask him to risk contagion merely to accommodate her needs in the manner to which she had recently become so happily accustomed? 

She frowned over the question. Bit her lip. Squirmed slightly (which was rather delightful with him lying so close). Placed her hand lightly over his. 

These subtle marks of inner turmoil failed to wake him, however, so she stilled, letting her mind drift, reviewing scenes from the last two days. She was still amazed that he’d been so patient with her, and at the thoughtful care he’d provided. 

 _I like to be needed, too._  

His words, spoken in admonition, had been proven to her beyond doubt. 

And heavens, she _had_ needed him. She had no idea what she would have done if he had not rushed to her side, just ahead of the storm. She had never been so ill in her life. 

He had waved away her tearful protests that he shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t linger to expose himself; quickly and accurately assessed the situation, and summoned John; then ignored her complaints as the foolish ravings of one in a fever dream: John should not be dragged out in such weather; it was wrong to ask him to leave Rosie at such a time; antibiotics were useless against influenza; she had no wish to be poked and prodded when it would do no good, when she was feeling so very ill, and he was cruel to insist she bear it, she only wanted to rest, why wouldn’t he just let her _rest?_  She’d refused the thoughtfully chosen Thai takeaway he’d brought, and ignored the beautiful roses, too. Her ungrateful petulance was so out of character that she should have known she was worse off than she’d realized. Well for her that Sherlock had realized it, otherwise he must have abandoned her in disgust. 

Summoning reserves of strength, she’d managed to smile for John when he finally came to her, but her stoicism was short-lived, failing her entirely when it came to his prescribed treatment. 

But Sherlock had only remarked, “For a doctor, you’re remarkably squeamish about needles,” gently teasing even as he’d held her, allowing her to soak his expensive shirt with tears and squeezing her hand hard as John did his worst. 

Once John had left, and the medication for her aching head had begun to take effect, she had become far calmer and more sensible, and was even able to acknowledge the justice of the scold Sherlock had given her, accusing her first of vanity, and then of not wanting to need his help. Both of which, to her shame, had been quite true. 

After that, things had gone more smoothly. She had accepted his help, in spite of a certain lingering awkwardness (on _her_ part; _he_ was merely annoyingly smug that he’d put her on the back foot for a change), and the next morning, after a decent night’s sleep, she had felt appreciably better. The medication John had prescribed had worked -- and was still. She would not be finished with the course of antibiotic tablets for two more days. 

Two more days of rest. And quiet. And snow. 

It astonished her not only that Sherlock had shown such forbearance, but that he did not seem at all bored. On the contrary, once she’d managed to stop weeping and gave herself over to his care, he had seemed to derive a certain pleasure from the situation. He’d brought his laptop and some books to keep him occupied, some clothing to supplement the things he already kept at her flat, and he’d seemed quite content to be there, lounging on the bed next to her for the greater part of the day, cheerfully deducing her every need. 

She had never felt so _cared fo_ r -- not since she was a very young child. 

And now… he was stirring. Finally! 

His arm tightened around her, and he breathed deep as he nuzzled her hair. “Good morning,” came his rumbling voice, 

Lord, even just his _voice_... 

She drew his hand to her lips, then, and kissed his fingers, one by one. 

He gave a sound of amusement and moved. Turned her onto her back, half covering her, one knee between her legs. “Feeling better this morning are we?” There was laughter in his eyes. He kissed her cheek. 

She hugged him close, her heart thudding. She said, soft in his ear, “My headache is gone. But I’m… um... beset in other ways, I’m afraid.” 

She felt him smile, then saw it as he drew back to look down at her. “ _Beset._ What an interestingly Victorian expression. Descriptive, though.” He kissed her forehead, then continued, “I’m not sure it would be wise to indulge in such strenuous activity at this point in your recovery. You have been very ill. In fact, it’s my belief that you still have a fever.” These words would have dismayed her more if he had not, at the same time, been handily undoing all the buttons of her plaid flannel pyjama shirt. “Let me see,” he murmured, and drew the soft material aside. 

The air was cool on her bare skin -- and his hand was cool as well. She shivered slightly, sighing and half closing her eyes. 

He kissed her cheek, then murmured, “Feverish, just as I thought. But what do you need, love? Tell me.” 

But there was no chance, his hand had drifted down, slipped under the elastic of her pink cotton pants, then lower. She opened her mouth on a small gasp, breathless, then rendered speechless. Not silent, no. But forming a coherent reply was out of the question, and would be for a considerable time to come. 

But later -- afterwards -- when they lay facing each other on the pillow, hearts gradually slowing, both temporarily sated, Molly rubbed her nose against his and said, “You… I need _you_. Only you. _Always you_.” 

And he smiled again, and gathered her close, content.

 

~.~


End file.
